Alistair in Wonderland: A Genderbending Story
by Amaniachwen
Summary: Burton's AiW version retold . . . with a genderbending twist! Here is  hopefully  the very amusing story of Englishman Alistair and his very, very Mad Hattie. Note: This is likely to be a bit darker than the movie in parts.
1. Chapter 1

Alistair in Wonderland:

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A Genderbending Story

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Chapter 1

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"Alistair, you're back!" cried a bright, tinkling voice from the head of the table.

"No, he isn't," said another, squeakier one. "He's not the right Alistair."

The young man in question, shrunk by pishsalver, stood before the tea party's platform, but was at such an angle that he could not see the bearers of these voices.

Next he heard a great thump and saw the table and tea-ware jump as a dazzling whirlwind of colors appeared tripping eagerly across the surface, setting cups and saucers and pots to clattering. The young man reflexively blinked against the brightness as the cyclone descended in a great rush of air. When he opened his eyes, he found two brilliantly green orbs smiling back.

"Oh, it's certainly him," breathed the same tinkling voice past cherry red lips. "I'd know Alistair anywhere."

These words were curious to the young man, and shocked as he was by all that had happened to him thus far in this crazy, unearthly world, he could not help but ask, "Excuse me, but have we met?"

The great creature crouched before him blinked perplexedly, still smiling beneath a_…a top hat? _Well, that was another curious thing to add to the ever-growing list of oddities._  
_

"So you've forgotten me, have you?" the genie-like being pouted, for a second knotting intensely orange eyebrows that matched two extremely bushy orange pigtails. "Well, you were still very young then, so I suppose I shall forgive you this time. But you shouldn't forget me again, yes?" The eyes gleamed a devilish lime. "_Naughty!_"

The young man could find nothing to say to this, and in response to his silence, the living, breathing rainbow with a top hat rose to its feet, but bent low enough to extend to him a hand.

"You will come to tea, won't you?" the voice chimed from above.

And to such a gracious invite, what could the young man say but yes?

"Good!" the tempest said, green eyes flashing and smile wide. Both features struck him briefly as depths in which he could become dangerously lost; but as he took the great hand with his, its giant-like strength whisked him away from his thoughts, leading him around to the head of the table.

"Welcome to our party! I am the Mad Hattress, and I shall be your hostess!"

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To Be Continued...

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A/N:

Hello, everyone! I know I really shouldn't be posting this before I've completed and posted my companion piece to "Where Madness Troubles the Hatter", but...I just couldn't help myself! I haven't read any genderbending AiW works yet, and if there is one / are some already out and about in the fandom community, then I apologize if I'm accidentally repeating those ideas. The name Alistair and the nickname Hattie were just too cute not to do something with, and they seemed original to me when I thought them up, and I hope they still are, but...well, I'm slow to figure out something like this, so other writers may have already beat me to it. *blush*

Anyway, thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed this very short preview. I would love to turn it into a longer work if anyone besides me is interested in me doing so, so if you are, please leave a review! : )

Best Wishes,

~Niach


	2. Chapter 2

Alistair in Wonderland:

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A Genderbending Story

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Chapter 2

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"Hare, you remember our old friend Alistair, don't you?" his hostess began conversationally as the tea party resumed with its new guest seated.

"It's the wrong Alistair," the Dormouse repeated, crossing her arms. The prized Bandersnatch eye tied around her waist bounced gently. The yet gooey eye caught the Hare's, momentarily distracting him before he swung his own pair back to the young Englishman.

"The other one, yes. Don't know about this one. This one's very small," he said, ears twitching fretfully.

"Yes, well, he's likely drunk some _pishsalver_, hasn't he?" the Hattress frowned, rather cross to find her teatime partner doubtful. "He isn't _really_ this short normally."

She turned to address the young man in question.

"Are you?" she pressed, eyebrows furrowing intensely. And eyebrows such as hers demanded answers.

Alistair shook his head.

"No, I'm actually quite tall," he replied rather awkwardly, looking round at the other party guests, all beyond what he had thought any person's imagination—let alone his own—capable.

The Hare seemed a ticking time bomb with his crazed yellow eyes and ever dilating and contracting pupils. His faded grey suit and white shirt were just as ruffled and unkempt as his fur, and his ears and nose twitched fiercely at all times. Alistair almost found him alarming, especially with their present height disparity, but he found more to pity in the poor spasmodic creature than to fear.

He was wary of the Dormouse, however. She was not at all impressed with him, though Alistair hadn't any idea why, aside from him being, apparently, the wrong Alistair. How was he to help that, though? So far she hadn't bent to his reasoning on the matter. No, her gaze upon him was stern and unrelenting, and for all the March Hare's doubt, Mallymkun was an absolute rock. She had already determined the extent of his worth, and with her hostility toward him evident even in the way she kept tapping her spoon (twice her height and half his!) against the small palm of her paw, he didn't suppose he was worth very much.

And finally, now that the swells of her movement had died down enough for him to get a good look at her, Alistair found true what he already suspected: the Hattress was the most shocking of them all.

She looked a very circus, as if someone had mashed together tent, players, creatures, and ringleader whole and fashioned them into a single person. Her hair stood out the most, a bright frizzy orange collected into two blazing pigtails tied loosely with purple ribbons. With a stark white face, her pallor only heightened every other unusual color decorating her skin. The circles under her eyes were cherry blossom pink, and her eyelids a robin's egg blue that matched the embellishments on her grey patterned scarf. And though her clothes seemed as old and as dulled as the Hare's, they still carried their former vibrancy and splendor with an eggplant jacket paired with a full forest green skirt. He then turned his gaze to the hat atop her head, her key feature as her title suggested. A large pinkishly coral ribbon wrapped around its base, the lengths falling in cascades off the back rim. She'd tucked myriad pins and feathers into the ribbon, as well as a white card reading "10/6." Glancing lower, he noted white lashes accentuated the green eyes; and now as she smiled at his curiosity, his gaze lingered on the gap between her front teeth. But as she was staring so intently back at him, he thought it best to turn away.

"'Quite tall,' he says!" Thackery was chirping. "Quite tall compared to what? A gnome? An egg? The Tweedles?"

Something in this sparked a riotous laugh in the Hare, and he fell to the table, clattering his teacup against the other dishes.

Alistair frowned at this, irritated to be teased for something he couldn't help. And really, why should they continue to single him out? He'd always been considered a bit eccentric back in London-like father, like son, society observed sagely-but he was by far the most normal person here. The trouble, he gathered, was that everyone here was so inclined toward strangeness that normalcy had become the strange. Alistair simply couldn't win.

So he lashed out, albeit in a rather reserved, British manner.

"At least I have a reason," he grumbled crossly to the Hare. "You're not very tall yourself."

He had to duck as the Hare threw his cup at him.

"Hey, watch it!" he cried as the porcelain smashed into pieces behind him.

"It's no use arguing with him," the Hattress said with a nod. "He's mad, you know."

Then, grinning again, she added, "We all are."

Alistair could certainly believe it. Indeed, how could he not? They were the strangest assortment he'd met yet in this very strange dreamland of his, and he'd already met the oddly rotund twins Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, as well as a Dodo Bird and a grinning, vanishing cat…

_Where did that cat go anyway?_ he wondered. The feline had led him here via a series of appearances and subsequent disappearances through the woods, but with the distraction of the tea party he'd lost track of it. With all the grinning the Hattress was doing, it occurred to him she might know him somehow. Surely this dreamworld was not so large that these peculiars had no acquaintance with their fellows?

"Hattress—" he began, but she instantly raised a finger to stop him.

"Call me Hattie," she said. "You always used."

Alistair's confusion had briefly plateaued, but it spiked again at this. What _was_ this lady going on about?

"What do you mean I used to call you Hattie?" he asked. "And what did you mean when you said I've forgotten you? I'm fairly certain I've never seen you before in my life."

"I mean precisely those things, of course!" she replied with an airy wave, as if forgotten encounters with dream people were just that: a matter of course. "Don't you know a mad person should never say a thing he doesn't mean? Never a word! It is because the truths he holds are lies to everybody else that everybody else calls him mad, you see."

A hint of yellow flickered in her eye as she continued.

"Only those who are wicked enough to harm others fall to lying, cheating—" Her voice turned deep, almost sinister, and an angry burr replaced the gentle, girlish lisp. _"—trickery, falsification—!_"

"Hattress!" Mallymkun interjected swiftly.

The Hattress stilled. And then blinked. With a slight shake of her head and a muttered, "I'm fine", her eyes returned to normal, the sudden blackness leaving both her face and her demeanor. The Hare positively shook with anxiety, and the Dormouse's solidity dissolved seeing her friend thus disturbed.

Alistair, for his part, had no idea how to react to this abrupt shift in behavior. It was certainly unnerving—even more so than the Hare's volatility—but the Hattress did seem to mean well, overall. She seemed to like him, and she certainly hadn't thrown her teacup at him…yet, anyway. At least for now he was fairly certain he could trust her.

"Hattie…" he said gently, testing the waters.

The Dormouse harrumphed.

Alistair ignored her and leaned forward as far as he could-his chest touching the tabletop-to lay his hand on the Hattress's pinky.

The Hattress noticeably perked at this. When she turned to him this time, her smile seemed the only thing between him and a flood of tears. He had no idea why she might cry, but he ignored this and returned her smile.

"Hattie," he said again with more confidence.

"Yes?" she asked.

"I was wondering…do you know a grinning cat that, well, tends to vanish all of a sudden and reappear elsewhere?"

He paused for a second to consider that perhaps this description applied to other felines inhabiting this world. So he added for good measure, "And is rather annoying?"

"Know him?" the Hare cackled, thrilled by the change in topic. "Why, he comes to tea! 'Do we know him'—ha!" His eyes abruptly swung to the side and fixated on Alistair's jacket.

"Blue," his lips popped, pupils contracting.

"To answer your question, yes," the Hattress said with a hint of distaste, "we know him. In fact, I'm fairly certain he's still here. Hiding, of course, as a coward is prone to."

"Now, Hattress," purred a low voice. "That's not very fair, is it? Not all of us have had a family to lose in the first place."

At the opposite end of the table, a purple cloud drifted into being, and from this the cat materialized: wide eyes, grin and all.

"No one said your uniqueness was to blame, Chessur," the Hattress growled as Alistair leaned forward in his makeshift booster seat of stacked books to see around the boulder-sized (to him anyway) scone on the plate beside him.

"He's not so unique," the Hare muttered, as the cat nudged his cup at him, wordlessly demanding he pour him a spot. The Hare irritably tossed it aside. "Not that one, it's dirty! You need a clean one! Everybody move down!"

"But I am unique," the cat pouted morosely, as if this were something to bemoan. Somehow even his pout was in the shape of a grin. "And as a unique creature, I have unique interests, you see."

"You say unique, but I call it _slurvish_, Chess. You always have been and always will be. You don't give a fig for others' ruin," the Hattress spat, her eyes yellowing again though she visibly struggled to check her temper.

"What ruin?" Alistair couldn't help but ask, curiosity besting him.

The Hattress stared stonily ahead, eyes locked on the Cheshire cat as she answered.

"The devastation of Underland at the hands of the _Bluddy Behg Hid_. The tyrant known as the Black King stole the crown from his brother and brought death and destruction to thousands all across the land."

She paused, gulping, her eyes flashing amber.

"Even my own Witzend."

Her eyebrows were furrowed again, and her eyes blinked rapidly as if confused. As if...lost. Alistair, though he didn't understand her very well in general, much less know her at all, found himself quite troubled to see her so.

"Everybody move down!" the Hare shrieked, furious no one was listening to him.

"That day was unfortunate," the Cheshire agreed, continuing to ignore the Hare, "but I don't see what you expect me to have done."

"Unfortunate?" The seeming confusion disappeared from the Hattress's countenance. Conviction blazing forth now, a darkly intense orange burning in her eyes. "_Unfortunate? _You call what happened that day…dare use such a _feebel_ word—!"

In a swift movement she was on her feet, pink-spotted pale hands balled into fists at her sides. She began circling the table, the ever-grinning cat the only thing in her stormy sights.

"Chessur_ slurking urpal slackush scrum—!_"

But before the Dormouse could interpose this time, a bloodhound bayed and a horn sounded.

"The Black Lady and her guard!" cried Mallymkun, eyes wide with fright. "Hattress, what should we do?"

"Everybody move down!" shrieked the Hare. "No, nobody move! No, everybody run!"

"Quiet, Thackery," the Hattress shushed, quickly coming to herself again and assessing the situation. "None of us is going to run."

"I might," Chessur grinned.

"Who said you were one of us?" the Hattress snapped back.

"Come now, Tarantella. We were once comrades, were we not?"

"Those days ended long ago, Chess," the Hattress said firmly. "Now get you gone if that is your wish."

She resumed her seat at the head of the table, and by the time she'd hurriedly forced Alistair to drink more _pishsalver_, the cat had vanished without a word.

"He's a useless bag of evaporating bones," the Hattress muttered angrily under her breath as she stuffed Alistair and his clothes into an empty tea pot.

"Still," she said, pausing for a moment to look warmly down at the even more pint-sized young man, "he did bring you to me."

Alistair was too stunned by the rush and confusion of events to respond, and merely stared up at her, dumbfounded.

"Yes, Alistair, you're right to stay quiet," the Hattress said as if his being dumbfounded amounted to a reply, "for if the Black Lady's gotten word of your arrival, believe me: your life will depend on it."

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To Be Continued…

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A/N:

And here is Chapter 2, considerably longer than Chapter 1, I am happy to say!

A few notes:

-HUGE thanks to quantum_witch for suggesting the name Tarantella for the Hattress. For those of you who, like me, are unfamiliar with the Tarantella, it is an Italian folk dance known for being quite wild. In other words, it perfectly suits the Hattress! :-D

-I wondered whether or not to genderbend the Red Queen into the Red King, but that seemed too simple. Moreover, I wasn't sure what to do about his hair. I have since discovered what I will do with his hair (it's rather shameful of me that his hair was the deciding factor, but whatever), and for this purpose, I have changed his suit. He thus will be the Black King, and the Knave is now appropriately titled the Black Lady. I did research on this and everything. Lol

-I love Chessur as much as anybody else, so I apologize for vilifying him a bit in this chapter. He is a very ambiguous character, though, so I will be having a bit of fun with that.

-Also, I am using some of the Underlandian words found in the first and final drafts of the script. In addition, I am making up some words of my own as I go along. I don't anticipate using them so often as to be distracting, but if anyone would like me to include a glossary of terms at the end of each chapter, please let me know.

Okay, so now that all that's said, I would just like to say above all else (though I'm saying it after, but whatever, I was leading up to it) thank you so, so much to all of you lovely readers! This fic has already taken hold of my heart and muse, and I anticipate it extending into a nice and long (and hopefully very fun) work.

Really, thank you all SO much for the readership, reviews, and support! \(^u^)/

Have a happy Easter weekend, everyone!

Best Wishes,

~Niach


	3. Chapter 3

Alistair in Wonderland:

A Genderbending Story

Chapter 3

Alistair, naked as a jaybird but for the sea of his own blue jacket modestly swept around his waist, could see nothing of the events taking place outside the teapot. However, he could piece them together well enough by sound and dialogue alone. Judging by the increasing clamor of armor, for example, he guessed a division of soldiers—more than likely the same ones who had chased him before—was closing in on the tea party.

"Greetings, gentlemen!" the Hattress welcomed cheerily, confirming the Englishman's suspicions.

Then her tone dipped and the brogue flared, just slightly.

"And Lady."

A burst of citrus scent suddenly rushed through the spout, and the teapot tipped gently, nearly pouring Alistair out of the folds of his clothes and exposing him to the porcelain's dimly reflective interior. He clung to his jacket, though, and managed not to shift too much. The Hattress had made a bow to her "guests", he gathered, and rather wished she'd at least given him a bit of warning before doing so.

Then came quite a different voice: hoarse, but sickly sinister. Hair-raising. Alistair thought it even suggested a seductive quality.

"It's nice to see this dunghole hasn't changed."

Or not.

"You're late for tea!" the Hare shouted, nervously clattering his cup against its saucer.

"I do beg your pardon, your ladyship, but we've only just now finished decorating for your arrival. And you discerned the theme expertly, if I do say so myself. 'Dunghole' was just the look we were going for, you see."

Alistair gulped involuntarily. He wasn't entirely sure the Hattress should be so forthrightly insulting as that, and hoped for her sake that this "Lady" merely chalked her cheek up to madness.

"The boy called Alistair is back in Underland," she growled, overlooking the impudence in favor of getting right to the point. "Have any of you lunatics seen him?"

"'Theboy'? What's that? A pox?" the Hare cackled uproariously at some joke Alistair—and everyone else, he suspected—failed to grasp. "A pox! A pox!"

A tea cup crashed on the ground.

"No, you idiot creature!" the throaty voice snapped. "_The _boy! _The_ Alistair! We're looking for him. Have—you—seen—him?"

A snuffling sound that had been part of the background noise was now growing more and more pronounced as something approached the pot. Alistair then heard (and smelled) the distinct pant of a dog.

"_Downal wyth Bluddy Behg Hid_," the Hattress whispered desperately as Thackery carried on with his distraction.

After a pause the dog whimpered, and a moment later the snuffling sound returned, but it harmlessly moved away.

"Can't see a pox if you haven't got it! Can't see what ain't there!"

"Oh, did you just make a rhyme?" the Hattress put in enthusiastically. "I do so love a rhyme. Come, come! Let's all sing a song in honor of his Majesty."

Alistair wasn't sure he liked where this was going.

"Twinkle, twinkle little bat! How I wonder where you're at!" the tea partiers began.

No, he certainly did not like it.

"Up above the world you fly," they sang on with the Hattress conducting them, though quite off-key herself.

"Like a tea tray in the sky—ah!"

The Hattress gave a cry and the teapot suddenly lurched forward, sending the Englishman flying out of the folds of his clothes. He desperately hoped the lid stayed in place, else anyone and everyone on the outside would be able to look in and see him belly-flopped and prone, his bare backside exposed for this entire dreamland to see. As he struggled to right himself, he thought he glimpsed through the spout a solid black eye and an equally black…spade?

The throaty voice came again, much closer now, directly above him and the Hattress.

"I'd thrash that crazy head of yours if I thought it might knock a bit of sense out of you," it hissed. "You're lucky the King hasn't—"

The bloodhound bayed again at the edge of the forest, conveniently interrupting the derogation. The Black Lady groaned reluctantly before pulling away. The Hattress, noticeably, said nothing or made any noise at all, but slowly righted the teapot in her lap.

"Follow the dog!" the Lady barked. "I want to find the boy and have him back to the King by sundown!"

Then, in a not-so-under-her-breath manner muttered, "Bloody mutt."

The clamoring of the armor began again as the soldiers marched off. Alistair had completely forgotten they were even there and chastised himself for focusing too much on the catfight between the two women. This might all be some crazy dream, but even if it were, he still didn't want to pseudo-die at the hands of his own imagination. From here on he would have to be more aware of everything happening around him.

When the coast was presumably clear, all three of the tea partiers heaved a collective sigh or relief.

"I thought we were done for for sure," the Dormouse squeaked.

"Were! Are! Will be!" the Hare quaked, crashing his cup back to its saucer. "We're all doomed now! Doomed!"

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Mallymkun muttered. "Here, Thackery, what do you call this?"

Thackery's shouting ceased on the spot. "Eye," he whispered, less as a response to the Dormouse, and more as one of his characteristically abrupt non sequiturs.

Jittery as he was, it was fortunate the Hare was so easily distracted, Alistair thought. But then again, the plucked out eye of the Bandersnatch could hardly _not_ distract a person, vile and morbid as it was.

"Hattress, are you all right?" Mallymkun asked, now that the Hare was calm.

"I'm fine," the Hattress assured. "Still, she didn't have to pull my hair. 'Lady', ha! More of a _bijlat_ that anything."

Alistair didn't know what the word _bijlat_ denoted, but from the venom the Hattress injected into it, he was pretty certain he could guess its meaning. A tap on the teapot's lid drew him from his thoughts, reminding him that he was, indeed, still in the teapot and not blindly listening to a play. Not that he'd ever been blind, of course, but sometimes at the theatre with his mother he would close his eyes and pretend he were blind. He rather thought the performance seemed more real when he supplied the images himself, deriving them solely from the orchestra and actors' voices. His mother thought this silly—the habit was socially unbecoming as well as a waste of money if her son wasn't actually _seeing_ the play they had gone to see—but Alistair disputed both her points. For one, he argued that he enjoyed the play much better when he saw it in his own mind. (His mother always rolled her eyes in exasperation at this.) And regarding her first point, the theatre was too dark for anyone in the audience to see whether he had his eyes closed or not anyway. Indeed, he knew from conversations at intermission that most of the other young men slept through the particularly dull plays. And while Alistair sympathized with his peers on these occasions, he also recognized that these particular young men only valued the theatre as a means of socializing. For them the aim of going to a play was not to see the play itself, but to mingle in the lobby with the ladies. Alistair's preferences and priorities were, as ever it seemed, atypical, and his mother attempted to correct them daily. But they both knew it was futile.

The tapping came again.

"Alistair, you are still in there, aren't you? Tell me you haven't shrunk so much that you can't even make yourself heard? I could've sworn I gave you the proper amount of _pishsalver_…"

Alistair slapped himself twice on the cheek. "Come now, man, you just told yourself you'd be more aware of what was going on around you! Focus now…"

"No. Sorry. Still here," he called.

"Are you covered? I'm going to open the lid now," Tarantella announced.

"Just a moment," Alistair said, swiftly seeing to it that all his unmentionables were covered. "All right."

With the lid gone, the Englishman felt as if he were staring straight into the sun, unprepared as he was for the sudden brightness.

"Look at you, naked as a jaybird," the Hattress tittered. "I'll just take a bit of your jacket and make a new outfit for you, shall I?"

Alistair turned beet red at this and found himself unable to respond. But the young woman needed no response, and simply reached in and pulled out half a sleeve and a corner of his vest, and with two snips of a pair of scissors produced from her pocket, returned the lid.

That was twice now she'd struck him dumb, he realized. He couldn't understand how she made him so nervous. She was just an extension of his imagination like everyone else in this dreamland, wasn't she?

He sat down to wait for her to finish her handiwork, but before he could properly readjust the fabric, the blinding light returned, and the Hattress was peering down at him again, a completed outfit of blue vest and pant with white shirt amazingly in hand.

"Oh!" she peeped at the sight of him and clanged the lid back in place. "So sorry!"

Then, realizing she still had the suit, she raised the lid just enough to stuff the set inside to its owner. Alistair heard Thackery and Mallymkun snickering over their tea, and from the way his cheeks were burning, he thought it impossible for his face to become any redder.

"Oh, and I thought you might like some underthings as well," the Hattress attempted to say in a whisper. But as flustered as she was, it came out louder and at a higher pitch than she intended. The Hare and Dormouse broke into hysterics, abandoning all pretense of ignoring the awkward exchange. In response to all of this, Alistair's face flushed fully, proving the impossible possible.

"Give a knock when you're done, will you?" the Hattress chirped after clearing her throat pointedly at her friends. "We've much to attend to before the Frabjous Day."

_Not this again_, the young man groaned to himself as he pulled on the pair of underwear with continued humiliation.

"I'm telling you, 'Tella, he's the wrong Alistair," Mallymkun groaned. "Absolem said so himself."

The Hattress hesitated at this, but otherwise did not waver.

"It's him, Mally. I'd know him anywhere."

"Not this again. Hattress—"

Tired of being subjected to arguments concerning who he was or wasn't, Alistair quickly finished dressing and knocked on the teapot, interrupting the two females. Tarantella immediately removed the lid and lifted the Englishman out by the back of his new vest, setting him down on the table. Her turquoise eyes stared at him, considering the ensemble she'd created from scratch. Alistair felt rather self-conscious under her intense gaze, even more so as he realized how perfectly the clothes fit. He desperately hoped this was more by a stroke of luck than because she'd gotten an eyeful of him. After what felt like ages, she cocked her head to the side, smiled, and said, "I like it!" He breathed a sigh of relief when she finally looked away.

"It's a pity I've no cobbling skills, or you might have a pair of shoes, too. But then again, you're so small that you're more likely _to be _stepped on than to step on anything yourself."

"Oh, Mallymkun," she then said, tripping on to her next line of thought. "Do we have any more _upelkuchen_?"

"What's oochelpuken?" Alistair asked, pouncing on the unfamiliar word. He'd been hearing the strange language spoken by these Underlandians all day, and it really had been provoking his curios nature.

"_Upelkuchen_," Tarantella repeated and succinctly explained, "It's a kind of cake that makes you grow."

But she was not to be diverted from her point, and turned back to the Dormouse.

"Do we, Mally?"

"No, sorry," the Dormouse said. "The rest of its in the Room of Doors, but the Door's locked now, and McTwisp had the extra key."

"Well, that makes things a bit more difficult," the Hattress admitted. "Can't help that now, though. And we need to cover as much distance as we can before nightfall."

"Where are we going?" Alistair asked. The Hattress seemed to have a plan, and the others seemed aware of it; but no one had thought to clue him into it, too.

"Absolem told you of the Frabjous Day, didn't he?" the Hattress confirmed.

"Yes. I saw it in the Compendium. That's the day Underland is saved when the Vorpal sword takes down the Jackerwobby."

"Jackerwobby?" the March Hare cackled. "Ha! What's that?"

"He means the Jabberwocky, Thack," Mallymkun said, rolling her eyes at the young man's confusion. (Grotesquely enough, when she crossed her arms at the same time, the movement made the Bandersnatch eye rotate around her middle.)

"The Jabberwocky! Ah!"

The Hare shrieked and chucked a cup down the end of the table.

"Yes, there will be a battle between the Jabberwocky and Vorpal sword," Tarantella continued, oblivious to the two's exchange. "But that smaller conflict only signifies a larger conflict, you see. Each one represents one side to a much greater fight."

"You mean a metaphor," Alistair said.

"Things that begin with 'm'! Yes!" the Hattress exclaimed. "Yes, that's perfectly what I mean! The Jabberwocky metaphors the Black King, and the Vorpal sword the White King! But the Vorpal sword is curious because it cannot wield itself. So there must be a metaphor between the sword and King: a champion! A White Knight! Because it is _both_ the Vorpal sword _and_ the White King's champion that metaphor the White King, so you see, it's not just the Vorpal sword that will save us: it is also the thing that the Vorpal sword represents. Well, not a thing, but a person."

"Right," he interrupted with a heavy sigh. He hadn't bothered following the Hattress's meandering explanation word for word, as he'd quickly got the gist of it with the "champion" bit. He really was tired of that point being brought up again. "The Alistair all of you want me to be."

"No," said the Hattress, much to his surprise. She was shaking her head firmly. "No. You are the right one, Alistair. You absolutely are."

"No, he's _not_," Mallymkun said exasperatedly, drawing out each word into a shrill whine. "I told you, 'Tella, Absolem says it's not him."

"Look, we've three days till the Frabjous and no time to argue. From here I'm taking Alistair to the White King. He's sure to have _upelkuchen_ on hand and can make more if he doesn't. After that, well, the Black King has the Vorpal sword, so…"

Things seemed to become complicated here, and by the pinched looks on the three tea partiers' faces, Alistair guessed none of them could supply any practical strategies after this point.

As if reading his thoughts, the Hattress quickly brushed the matter aside and said, "We'll sort that out as it comes."

Then she took off her hat and set it on the table beside him. Despite himself and the others' gravity in regards to the Frabjous situation, the corner of Alistair's mouth twitched at her hat hair.

"For now we must be on our way. Your carriage, sir," she pronounced with a playful bow.

Alistair stared incredulously at the accessory. Carriage? Did the hat turn into a coach like the pumpkin in the Cinderella fairytale? Or perhaps wheels would sprout from beneath its lip and one of those fantastically literal horseflies he saw earlier would come and draw it?

"Hat is the best way to travel, you know. All the best people travel by hat. Come now, Alistair, climb aboard," the Hattress coaxed.

Ready for anything (or telling himself he was ready for anything, anyway), Alistair stepped onto the hat's lip.

"Good. Now hold on tightly. There you are."

Now he had a secure grip on the coral ribbon, Tarantella carefully but quickly placed the hat back atop her head. Was this it? He was simply going to ride on her hat? That was rather a disappointment next to the scenarios he'd imagined, especially when the Hattress tried to bill it as the best mode for travel.

But what really bothered him about it—whether it was this scenario or another—was the restriction that came with the impossible becoming possible. Because he'd been shrunk, he could ride atop the hat. But also because he'd been shrunk, he was being "kept" and "managed" like a pet. He would much prefer to be his own size and walking beside Tarantella, rather than being so small he couldn't do as he liked while she was forced to direct the pair of them. But as the Hattress had said, they couldn't do anything about that now; he would simply have to do what he could until they reached the White King. And besides, he reminded himself, it was only a dream anyway. A very vivid, unusual dream—even for him—but a dream nonetheless.

"All right. We're off then," the Hattress announced. "Oh, my scissors! I shouldn't forget those. Right. Now, Thackery, Mallymkun, _fairfarren_, and I hope we see you soon."

"Be careful, dear," said the Dormouse with not a little worry evident in her expression and voice.

"Fairfairnen," Alistair tried repeating in his way, and nodded at the two animals in turn.

"Don't forget your tea!" were the Hare's parting words as the Hattress turned and began walking away.

Unused as he was to riding aboard a hat, Alistair didn't think he was ready yet to try leaning around the broad side band for a farewell glance at the tea party. But he needn't anyway: as the Hattress suddenly dipped her head and his stomach flipped, he watched as a cup sailed over them and shattered on the lifeless ground. He heard the Dormouse and March Hare break into another fit of laughter behind them. The Hattress tutted from below his feet.

No, he didn't need to look back at all. He could imagine the scene well enough on his own.

To Be Continued…

A/N:

Yay! I finally finished and am posting Chapter Three! I'm so, so sorry for the terrible delay since the last chapter. The last month of the semester was really busy with work, final classes, and what felt like a bajillion writing assignments. Making things even more complicated and stressful (happy tidings though they were), I found out that I got a job teaching English in Japan; and while I'm super excited about that and have been wanting this opportunity for ages, I'm a real homebody, so…coming to terms with leaving is going to be difficult. Fortunately, I have my fanfic writing to distract me, so please look forward to seeing more chapters in the following weeks. And if you could please leave a line or two of feedback, it would absolutely make my day!

Other than that, I hope everyone is off to an excellent summer! : )

Best Wishes,

Niach


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